


places we've grown

by olavidalo



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Depression, Disordered thinking, Dubious Consent, Extremely brief + mild painplay, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insufficient Negotiation, M/M, Minor Character Death, Self-Hatred, Unresolved Tension, allusions to self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olavidalo/pseuds/olavidalo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I. Power went out last night and I wrote this until it came back on this morning. Wasn't going to post it - but here we are.<br/>II. Title from Coldplay's "Don't Panic"<br/>III. As usual: these are all lies. Egregious, unbeta'ed, unbritpicked lies. Uncapitalized as well, as I'm a lazy typist.<br/>(IV. What is it called when a person takes advantage of another person's vulnerability for their own satisfaction? Besides predacious.)</p>
    </blockquote>





	places we've grown

**Author's Note:**

> I. Power went out last night and I wrote this until it came back on this morning. Wasn't going to post it - but here we are.  
> II. Title from Coldplay's "Don't Panic"  
> III. As usual: these are all lies. Egregious, unbeta'ed, unbritpicked lies. Uncapitalized as well, as I'm a lazy typist.  
> (IV. What is it called when a person takes advantage of another person's vulnerability for their own satisfaction? Besides predacious.)

 

 

'if you wanna replace her,' zayn says, not able to look at the photograph any longer, 'you're gonna have to do better than that.'  
  
his dad's smile crumples. 'shut the fuck up,' doniya hisses, and punches zayn in the arm, hard. his shoulder is still throbbing slightly when he climbs out the fire escape forty-seven minutes later. d's waiting at the bottom of the alley, leaning against his car. he watches zayn climb all the way down, gives him a small smile when he drops to the ground. 'where to?'  
  
zayn shrugs. for a few horrible seconds, the pockets of his dad's jacket feel shapeless, cavernous, and he can't quite breathe. but then his fingers find the bottom - and the world drops back into focus around him. his stomach grumbles, reminding him that he's skipped out on dinner for the past three nights.  
  
'wherever,' he says, sliding into the side seat, knowing d will know what he needs.

 

* * *

 

they end up in the empty car park of the old masjid, slowly passing a bag of steaming chips back and forth. d never licks the salt off his fingers so zayn does it for him, when they've finished; starts at the thumb of his left hand, finishes, quick, at his right pinkie, tongue dry and slightly numb. d lets him, face scrunched up slightly, and then he wipes both of his hands off on zayn's right leg. ugh.  
  
zayn makes a face, and then another, and then another, and then he looks out his window so d can't see him anymore.  
  
'so, london, eh?' he says. it's embarrassing, how his voice sounds. he clears his throat.  
  
'that's the plan,' d says, quietly, staring straight ahead. 'me this year, you and ant next, yea?'  
  
zayn blinks, hard. it feels like someone's unzipped the back of his head and dumped a pile of sand inside. 'yea,' he lies, staring up at the purpling sky. ''course.'  
  
they stay there until cars and vans start pulling up around them, and two different aunties have tapped on d's window asking if they'll be joining them inside. doubtless zayn'll be recognised if he sticks around, and then it'll be, oh, we haven't seen you in _ages_ , you've gotten so big, yaser talks about you all the ti--ime. he nods when d raises his eyebrow at him, and that's all it takes before they're backed out and taking the opposite route home.  
  
his stomach twists up the closer they get to his street. he's going to have to _apologise_. he was disrespectful, of course he's going to have to apologise. but then he'll have to lie and pretend he didn't mean it, pretend that he's perfectly fine with some stranger coming in and trying to _replace_ \--  
  
but whatever. his dad'll do whatever he wants and the rest of them will just have to fucking deal. like always.  
  
he skips the lift and goes for the stairs when they get inside. he wants time to gather his head. d doesn't apologise about taking the lift; just gestures to his right ankle and shrugs as the door closes between them.  
  
zayn's lungs are as fucked as ever (and the smell of piss isn't exactly calming) but once he reaches the sixth floor he feels. clearer, somehow.  
  
'sorry, dad,' he'll say, as soon as he comes in, and maybe they'll hug? or something. 'i know this is hard on you, too.'  
  
and maybe his dad'll feel so guilty that he won't bring up meeting _anne_ again for at least a couple weeks. he hopes so.  
  
he meets d standing in front of their door, looking patiently bored. 'lights are off,' d says, and a quick glance at the bottom slit proves him right. zayn can't hear anyone inside, either. he unlocks the door, pushes it open slowly.  
  
saf's new pink shoes are gone, waliyha's jacket is missing from the rack, and doniya's keys aren't hanging up.  
  
they've gone. left without him.  
  
d pushes him forward so they're not just stood in the doorway, closes the door behind them. flicks the front light on.  
  
'where d'ya think they--' d starts, but then zayn glances into the living room, sees a boy he's never seen before, asleep on the couch.  
  
d brushes past him, nudges the boy's foot with his knee. the boy wakes up, hair all in his half-open eyes.  
  
'-rmmm,' he mumbles, blinking sleepily at them. they blink back at him. he scrambles upwards. 'oh. eh, hullo,' he says. he purses his lips, looks between them. 'you must be. you must be zayn?'  
  
zayn glances, quick, at d. 'i'm zayn,' d says, without pause. 'and this is my friend, danny.' zayn feels his lips stretch into a smile.  
  
'oh. hi,' the boy says, reaching up to shake d's hand. 'nice to meet you. i'm anne's son, harry? everyone went out to eat but, ah, i was feeling a bit poorly so--'  
  
he has his mother's smile. zayn hates him.  
  
'well, i hope you're feelin' better,' zayn says, grinning widely. 'zayn and i were just about to go for a drive around the block. wanna come with?'  
  
d scratches his jaw, gives zayn a small look. zayn ignores him, watches harry's face as it lights up. 'yea, sure, that sounds brilliant,' he says. he takes his boots off of the couch -- his filthy, falling-apart _boots_ , off of zayn's mum's good sofa - and zayn hates him even more.  
  
'do you've gas money?' he asks, still smiling. of course this motherfucker's taller than him. how old had dad said he was? fuck it, he doesn't care. harry's smile falters.  
  
'it's alright, _d_ , i'm good,' d says, elbowing him. zayn rolls his eyes, lets harry walk ahead of him back out into the hallway, tunes out his chattering until they're almost to the car.  
  
'so, wow, you've your own car?' harry whistles, really playing it up, like it's a porsche and not a fucking acura el. 'lu-cky. i still have to take the bus. oh, shotgun!'  
  
zayn and d give each other a look. 'oh,' harry says, shrinking a bit as d unlocks the doors, 'just kidding? i can sit in the back.'  
  
zayn smiles. 'it's not a problem,' he says, simmering with rage as he slides into the back-seat. d stares at him in the rearview mirror, gives him a 'what're we doing' look.  
  
'hey. _zed_ ,' zayn says, smiling for real, 'let's go to the cell.'  
  
zayn hates the cell. d knows this. 'you sure?' he asks, after a good pause.  
  
'y-up,' zayn says, and then he looks away so d can't mindfuck him into taking it back.  
  
'what's the,' harry says, voice sinking, 'what's the cell.'  
  
d turns on the radio.

 

* * *

 

they're lucky: taio's working the door that night. they get in free.  
  
harry's heavy on zayn's heels, practically breathing down his neck, and he keeps trying to fucking _talk_ to him. zayn speeds up, twisting through the mad crush as he follows d to the bar.  
  
a guy with neon green hair pinches his bum, disappears in the winking lights. zayn hides his burning face against d's back, briefly grateful for the thrash of people around him shouting for drinks.  
  
he really fucking hates the cell.  
  
'hey,' d shouts over the music, a glass of coke in one hand and a sweating beer in the other. 'what's harry want?'  
  
annoyed, zayn turns to ask. harry's not behind him, though. he quickly scans the crowd around him, can't see a single white guy. he hides his brief flare of panic with a shrug. harry's not a _child_. dad said he was, what, 17? no way this is his first club. he'll be fine.  
  
'went to the bathroom,' zayn says, guiltily, taking his coke and pushing for a table before d can say anything.  
  
he doesn't care. no one asked moptop to come along. okay, well, zayn had, but if he hadn't wanted to come in he could've just waited behind in the car. clearly he has no problem hanging back when he wants to.  
  
he'll be fine.  
  
'oh, hey,' d says fifteen minutes later, jutting his chin out towards the dance floor, 'there he is.'  
  
zayn stops looking around and narrows his eyes in front of him. where...ah. there he is. of course he's already found a group of people to dance with. he's wedged between dreadlocked twins with identical red smiles, throwing his head back in laughter. no wonder--no wonder zayn's dad always sounds so impressed whenever he talks about _anne's_ son.  
  
'could draw a smile out of a stone, that one,' he'd say, and then he'd look at zayn a little pityingly. because everyone knows zayn went a bit wrong after his mum died. even saf, zayn's fiercest protector, does, and on some days she can't even remember what their mum sounded like.  
  
in the back of his mind he knows his dad loves him, still loves his mum (still cries over her picture when he gets back home late, at least), will always love them both, would never try to replace either of them.  
  
but in front of him, all he can see, all he can focus on is harry's stupid fucking smile. he feels the hatred curling up his throat, a vice so strong he can't help throbbing with it.  
  
he puts a hand on d's arm. 'let's leave,' he says, shouts, really.  
  
d looks relieved. 'okay,' he says, leaning closer, 'i'll go get--'  
  
zayn shakes his head, not wanting to hear his name. 'let's _leave_ ,' he says, more insistently. d sighs heavily, shakes his head, but doesn't say anything. they get up, push through the crowd, zayn keeping his head down so he doesn't accidentally catch sight of harry and lose his nerve. they're almost to the side exit when zayn hears his voice.  
  
'oh, there you are,' harry says, and he flings himself against zayn's back. 'thought you guys were about to leave without me, ha ha.'  
  
d throws zayn an uncertain grin, like - is he stupid? and zayn grins back because it's easier than explaining that he can feel harry trembling all against his back; that a fear this deep really must be contagious; that all his anger's being squeezed out and now he just wants to get out of here and go _home_.  
  
'can you take me home,' harry mumbles, as if he can hear zayn's thoughts. his voice is thin and wavering in the flashing darkness. is he drunk? probably a little. zayn ignores d's inquiring look, doesn't say anything, doesn't make any show that he's heard. harry squeezes zayn more tightly against him, speaks directly into his ear: 'please. please can you take me home.' zayn shudders, feels as though the world cuts out around them.  
  
for a moment he's not sure if he's hearing harry's heartbeat in his ears or his own.  
  
'let's go,' d says, d, who can't have heard harry, who must've only been able to see the look on zayn's face. d, who always sees through him, anyway.  
  
it's a relief.  
  
it's difficult to walk with harry clinging so hard. zayn manages, barely. 'shotgun,' he mumbles, when the car's within sight, but harry pulls him into the back-seat, hangs all over him. he falls asleep in minutes, drooping until his head lands in zayn's lap.  
  
his chest goes up and down, quick and steady, like waliyha's used to, during her grief naps.  
  
zayn tosses his dad's jacket over harry's side so he can't see him breathing. leans to the side and watches the streetlights pass on above them.

 

* * *

 

when d drops them back home and harry's only response is to wave goodbye, zayn figures he'd known, and had known all night, who zayn really was, but had played along anyway.  
  
mrs obasi gives them a quick holy smile as she passes them in the lobby. probably on her way to a midnight service somewhere.  
  
'so your mum showed you pictures, huh.' the lift seems smaller than ever, what with harry standing stretched straight up for the first time that night.  
  
harry's glance feels like a physical touch against zayn's cheek. he slouches again and shrugs loosely. 'i don't like to make waves.'  
  
neither do i, zayn almost says, but then he thinks about what his dad would've said if he'd come home without his--without his girlfriend's only son; and holds his tongue.  
  
the lights are still off - doniya had not specified further than 'soon' when he texted asking when they'd be back. even from the doorway, the smell of coming rain tickles his nose. he goes to his room to shut his window, trying to delay the inevitable.  
  
back in the living room, harry is folded neatly in half on the couch, looking down at a framed photograph he took off the side table.  
  
'you want somethin' to drink?' zayn asks, instead of shouting at him about his fucking boots.  
  
harry glances up with an indulgent grin. maybe he can tell that zayn's trying to stretch out the time as long as possible; who knows. he turns the photo, holds it up: it's of zayn and doniya, leaning over waliyha's crib. 'you were a cute kid.'  
  
'so, water? water's good with you? great.' in the kitchen, zayn takes out a glass, turns on the tap. he watches the water climb a third of the way, then half of the way -- then it's overflowing, gushing down the sides, making tiny pools before sliding down the drain.  
  
'i'm not that thirsty,' harry says, behind him. zayn doesn't startle; watches harry reach around him and shut the water off.  
  
he would swear on his life that he doesn't lean back when harry presses against him. but probably it might look like he did, if you didn't know him. if you didn't know.  
  
'you think.' he clears his throat, tries again. 'you think they're really in love?'  
  
he swallows a sigh when he feels harry shift against his back. 'dunno,' harry says, 'though, to be fair, i've not seen mum smile like this in ages.'  
  
zayn wants to ask him, did he know? the minute his mum came home from the airport, rambling about getting her suitcase mixed up with some stranger's, could he tell? that this man was different, that this man would stick?  
  
but he doesn't want to know - not really, anyhow - so he doesn't ask.  
  
he covertly wipes his eye off on his shoulder - he feels a slight pain when the bone of his eye socket presses against the bruise doniya left him - and steps away.  
  
'water's there, if you want it,' he mumbles, and he escapes into the living room.  
  
everything looks different, somehow, knowing that harry's already seen it - that anne's probably seen it, too. he wonders if his dad gave them a tour of their flat, if they walked just a little bit further down the hallway and peeked into his room, chuckled over how messy it is.  
  
'my dad never shouted at my mum,' says harry, coming to sit right next to him on the couch. he takes a long drink from the glass; zayn watches his throat work. 'he never - never intentionally hurt her. he was just--there.' he sets his cup down on one of the purple coasters in front of them. 'when she asked for a divorce i think he was relieved, honestly.'  
  
'my parents never fell out of love,' zayn says, looking away. 'my mum just. she just, uh, died.' he thinks for a second that tears will come to his eyes -- it's shaping up to be one of those nights -- but a second passes, and then two, and no tears come at all.  
  
'i'm sorry.' harry presses closer to him. he's so fucking obvious, it hurts. 'can i. i mean. am i allowed to ask--?'  
  
anne never told him. zayn wonders if she knows, and kept it from him. or if his dad kept it from her; if he was ashamed, or just sad.  
  
'she drowned,' he says, breaking the silence. 'five years ago. she drowned.' in a bathtub full of water gone pink by the time he found her.  
  
sometimes it doesn't matter if it's love, he knows; sometimes love isn't enough.

 

 

+

 

 

harry's probably going to hell.  
  
'i'm sorry,' he whispers again, scooting even closer. gem said they were stuck in pretty horrific traffic, so harry only has about thirty minutes before the window for fucking closes indefinitely. it's already weird enough, what with him having met yaser in person, and doniya, _and_ waliyha, _and_ safaa.  
  
he's trying not to think about it.  
  
zayn doesn't look up when he puts his arm around him, just looks straight ahead at harry's glass of water like it holds all the answers to the universe.  
  
god, he's fucked up.  
  
 _drowning_. yea, that's one way of putting it.  
  
harry digs his thumb into zayn's shoulder, near where he's pretty sure there's a bruise or something. zayn flinches obligingly, then finally, finally looks up. he's got his father's ey--not thinking about it, not thinking about it.  
  
'oh, sorry, did that hurt,' harry feigns surprise. zayn does that suspicious-weepy-smoulder he's been doing all night. he looks like he wouldn't trust a word harry said if the queen herself endorsed him.  
  
at that, harry (who's been half-hard ever since zayn stroked his hair in the car) resigns himself to a dead night. it's practically his fault, anyway. who the fuck gets turned on talking about dead mums and distant fathers?  
  
zayn abruptly shrugs his arm off. 'take off your boots.' harry watches him stand, confused.

zayn's mouth goes tense and annoyed. 'i'm not fucking you with those boots on,' he says shortly, walking off down the hallway. 'so take them off.'

 

* * *

 

zayn keeps lube and condoms in his bedside drawer -- harry wonders if old danny boy knows this -- and a fist in his mouth as harry fucks into him.  
  
he's a generous kisser, matches the pace harry sets, and is courteous enough to wait a full six minutes after they've both come before bursting into tears.  
  
he even _cries_ prettily, harry thinks, with what is probably an inappropriate amount of interest.  
  
he is definitely going to hell.  
  
'was i that bad,' he jokes, not reaching for zayn even though he truly, sincerely wants to just give him a hug.

and maybe slip him some tongue and fingerfuck him. just a bit.  
  
zayn hides his face in his hands, takes a deep juddering breath which could be very broadly defined as a laugh, if you'd never heard one before in your life. harry takes it as encouragement anyway, drops a gentle kiss on zayn's shoulder, atop the small green bruise blooming there.  
  
'you bruise easy, hm,' he whispers. probably it's not normal to want to make him cry harder. he kisses the bruise more firmly anyway, just to watch the ripple that goes through zayn's body.  
  
'ow,' zayn says quietly, steepling his hands against his nose and watching harry through wet lashes.  
  
harry bites him.  
  
zayn hisses, shuts his eyes. doesn't move away. 'if you don't like it, i'll stop,' harry murmurs, pressing kiss after kiss to the reddening skin.  
  
'--stop,' zayn says, deep in his throat. harry pauses, looking up in surprise.  
  
'you don't like it?' he asks. he was certain he had him pegged the minute he saw his wrists.  
  
zayn doesn't answer, just sits up before harry can stop him. from that distance, the change is almost immediate: his face closes up and harry can't read him at all.  
  
'we should get cleaned up,' zayn says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

it shouldn't hurt, seeing his back -- it's a nice enough back, albeit bony, and marred with regrettable tattoos -- but it does, and harry feels something close up in him as well.  
  
they get dressed in silence, turned away from each other. the only time they touch is when zayn leans over him to push open his window.

it's only just started drizzling but harry can already hear gem complaining about the havoc the rain has wrought on her hair.  
  
by the time their respective families come through the door sixteen minutes later, dripping and complaining happily, they're sat on opposite ends of the couch, watching a news report about the worsening weather.  
  
'well, then,' says his mum, yaser guiding her into the living room with a hand on her back. gem sends him a quick grin, carries safaa down the hall with doniya at her side. 'did we have a good time here, boys?'  
  
harry doesn't even have to look at zayn's smile fully to know it's fake. 'how bout you, liyha,' zayn says, rather obviously avoiding eye contact with anyone else. waliyha glances at harry, blushes, and then trips down the hall.  
  
'hope you're feeling better,' yaser murmurs to him, while his mum beams fruitlessly at zayn. harry's stomach, which had been fine all night, suddenly churns anew.  
  
'oh yea,' he says, not looking up when zayn looks at him, 'loads.'

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ten hours later and I still don't know what I think about this. Feedback?


End file.
